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Classy J Dec 2016
They call me the smartest *****; they look at me like they would at Sauron.  Maybe I am just destined to be defined like an oxymoron, and also why do people shut their doors on me like I was a Mormon. Did I make the right choice when I took the blue pill and moved into Zion? Don’t know how to feel or who or what I should rely on. Bygones are bygones, got to follow the drill, so best not pull any funny ones. Being spied on, got no where to run, after all when your under a dictatorship there is no time for fun, there is only time to train one how to shoot a gun. Blang blam got a cross on fire on my lawn from the dreaded Ku Klux ****.  One extreme to another, what happened to Jesus’s teachings of how we are all heavenly sisters and brothers? **** the American dream; **** this apparent land of the free where anyone from anywhere can attain cream. Not a joke so turn this into a meme, this is serious if you only saw the things which some claim as the unseen.

Open your mind; don’t bind yourself to devilish things that appear kind. Charging up my chakra, hypnotizing you with my words like I’m the unclaimed child of Big Poppa. I am so waka I get yawl flocking to my flame, my bars aint **** yeah they as lit as Mary Jane. Bulking up like Bain, natural leader and I got a big brain. Some stalker ******* get so shady, thinking that I will spend my gravy, or that I will have their baby. Sorry I am not interested in getting rabies or taking a taste of your dead daisy. This is my loot; ***** the only thing I’ll give you is the boot. Scoot away from me, best stray by the bay before I write a restraining order on thee.  What is this world coming to? Harold be it that we stuck in a rut with a storm beginning to brew.  

People say I should stop drinking because I got family duties and responsibilities but I drink because I have to deal with the stress from family duties and responsibilities.  **** it all; **** my *****, better duck down because one punch and you’ll fall. Got the gall, Pokémon master man **** right I’m about to catch them all! I’m super and I like to smash bro, so better hide your ***** and your side **. Classically unclassified, mentally traumatized from a fall out of a genocide. Time to be unfiltered; rhyming from a heart that used to be good but now has been altered. Maybe I am just an oxymoron, just a sly fox that know how to survive because no matter what my hope for a better world will stay strong. I may live in this world but I am not of it, I may continue to give until I decide to say ah **** it! Isn’t it ironic? Isn’t the whole point of being a rapper to make a profit and strive to rap as fast as the speed of sonic? Let me puff some **** and drink till I’m subatomic. Wouldn’t that be ironic? Wouldn’t that be something if I chose to become like everyone else and live out a life of being toxic. So am I ironic or am I just an oxymoron? Don’t give a **** either way because I am iconic and will take anything you haters bring on!
Onoma Oct 2013
Mangled skirmish, of bespeckled olive-green
serpents.
Their sinuous anarchy runs cold upon her
skull.
Caravaggio, you immortalized the *****,
immured her, hermetically sealed her within
that shield.
Her reflection was at once the face she
never saw...******, she...then beheaded.
I notice you've even painted the shield the
color of her serpentine locks.
Serpents registering her ontological shock--
retentive, entwining, dangling in an odd
curl here and there.
Blood spurting from her almost indiscernible
neck, as if to draw a passable neck of blood,
almost like rays of blood, Christ's pierced side.
Her eyes seem so determined to chisel their
way out of stone, reconnect her head to her
body.
Her face is stunning, an excruciating ferocity
bulking stiff, slightly opened mouth about to...
explode out of her eyes.
Eyes hissing downward, sideways--there in the
pitch black glint of them...a primordial drama
to be continued.
ashley Apr 2013
Description: Sam's not at all who people think he is. He might be quiet, he might be shy, but he also was diagnosed with cancer. When Briar moves to town, she catches Sam's eye. What will happen once the two get closer? Will Briar light a spark in Sam's heart?

-

Distant Memory

Dedicated to my cousin, Blake, who is currently fighting a horrific battle of Lymphoma.



You're probably thinking this is just some clichè love story, one about a girl having a crush on her best friend's brother, or how two people fall madly in love, but it's anything but. This is my story, with a twist unlike any other.

~

It all started in our Junior year of high school. You were new to Wakefield High, just moving here the previous year from New York City. On the first day of school, you were so unsure of yourself, not knowing what to do or where to go. I watched as you made your way through the halls, nudging your way through the crowded bodies as students made their way to class. Even though the halls were tremendously over-crowded, you were easy to spot. Your blonde hair and strikingly blue eyes stood out by the school's bland beige walls. You were more radiant, more powerful and glowing, than anything or anyone in the whole school.

Eventually, you made friends in all the clubs you'd joined - culinary club, photography club, and ASL. I don't know what made you stand out from all the other girls at Wakefield High, but whatever it was, it was strong. I felt drawn to you, like we shared a connection deeper than either of us knew. And it was then when I made it my goal to get to know you.

For the first few weeks, I'd tried bulking up the courage to speak to you. I had planned it all out in my mind. I would talk to you at lunch, right as you gathered your food and headed off to the library like you do every day. That was my chance, and I was determined to stick with it.

On that day, I was behind you in the lunch line. Once you got up there, you ordered a chicken empanada, then headed off to the library in the West wing. I quickly grabbed my lunch, a light Cesar salad, and trailed behind you.

You were walking faster than expected, and I was just too weak. I stopped, holding my knees as I gasped for breath. That was my chance to talk to you, to finally hear your beautiful voice, and I blew it.

It wasn't because of what you think. I couldn't keep up because I was lazy or out of shape, because I was neither of those.

I was diagnosed with Leukemia last October, and after tons of treatment, my doctor said I could try going back to school. I decided it would probably be best for me to live a normal life - as much as normal can get for a boy with cancer. Knowing that I was going to die soon - my doctor predicted I would only last for another year, tops - made me want to get to know you more.

After many wasted days of trying - but failing - to get your attention, I gave up. You were too wrapped up in your new life to even acknowledge my existence. Too busy maintaining your new found reputation, too busy dating a new guy every week. I always thought you were a ***** because of it, that you took advantage of different guys and then left them to crumble to pieces, but all of that changed on that faithful day.

I had gotten dropped off late to school because I had to get tests run at the hospital that morning. I tried to get to class on time, running as fast as I could. Only that didn't work because before you knew it, I was out of breath once again.

I headed over to the restroom, hoping a cool splash of water on my face would do the trick, when I heard wailing in the girls bathroom. I looked over my shoulder before entering, just to be safe. As I closed the door, I locked it behind me.

You were leaning against the wall, knees drawn to your chest as you cried. Noticing a presence, you looked up at me, thick black mascara running down your rosy cheeks. Your eyes were puffy, and I could tell you'd been crying for quite a while.

I didn't know what to say or do at that point, so I did what my heart told me I should do. I held you.

I sat next to you and wrapped my arms around you. Your body seemed small and weak, heaving in my arms. You cradled your head into my neck as tears fell from your bright blue eyes. I didn't bother asking what was wrong. Figured I would at a better time.

Just then, you looked up at me, face flushed and blotchy, and grabbed my hand. It seemed to fit perfectly within yours, our frail fingers intertwined in each others.

I tucked a few of your light blonde strands behind your ears as your cries dwindled. Even after you'd finished crying, you sat with me.

"What's your name?" Your eyes shone with curiosity.

"Sam."

"I'm Briar."

Briar. What a beautiful name. I smiled in your tangled hair. I never in a million years thought I would ever talk to you, and even if I had, I never would have expected it to be quite like this.

"You like Ed Sheeran too?" You asked, your eyes widening in delight as you scanned my shirt. I watched a smile creep to your face, lighting up your gorgeous eyes.

"Yeah, he's my favorite singer," I smile shyly. I can feel the heat rushing to my cheeks, and I feel embarrassed for acting this way.

Ever since then, we began talking. The more we talked, the more I knew how wrong I was about you. You weren't a ***** at all; all the guys you've dated broke up with you, but blamed it on you every time. That's how you got the title as biggest ***** of the school. I felt bad because you were one of the sweetest people I'd ever met, portraying someone you weren't.

I felt like that Ed Sheeran shirt brought me luck. It was the start to our budding friendship.

After a while, you completely changed. You stopped hanging out with the populars, claiming they were never into you anyway. And I found you enjoyed yourself more. I ended up joining the photography club later that year. Whenever we would go out on weekends, I was always taking pictures of you, catching the memories within a moment of time.

You always loved my pictures. As we sat in my bedroom, I'd let you pick out your favorites for you to keep, writing little notes on the back of each picture. Your absolute favorite one was that one of the two of us.

We were in a huge field, smiling as I held you in my arms wedding style. Your blonde hair flew around in all different directions and your eyes held happiness and joy. That was my favorite one too.

I had always had feelings for you, ever since that day in the bathroom, but I'd never have the chance to show you how I really feel. Even if I did, why would you love me back? I have no hair anymore since going through chemotherapy. My body's frail and weak, barely able to stand up on my own.

I had went to the doctors two days ago for more tests, and the doctor found that the tumor in my brain was growing more and more rapidly by the second. Therefore, I would be dying sooner than expected. I only had four days left. My mother held me in her arms as she cried, her wet tears staning my t-shirt.

That night, I called you and told you the news. You cried into the phone, and I wish I was there to hold you, tell you that everything would be okay, that I would be better soon. It was a lie, but I didn't want to hear you sad. I felt bad for being the cause of it.

The next day, I was rushed to the hospital after my mother found my collapsed in my room.

It was then I knew my life was coming to a close. I grabbed a pen and piece of paper, and wrote you a letter.

~

Dear Briar,

If you're reading this, I'm probably gone by now. I just woke up to the dimly lit lights flooding into my room, tubes and needles inside of me. My heart monitor is beeping weakly next to me, and I feel very frail. Cold, frail, and in tremendous pain. You're alseep on the couch right next to my bed and I watch you, take in your beauty for the last time. Your blonde hair is flowing around your head like a halo, your lips look like delicate red rosebuds. Even though I am weak, getting skinnier by the second, I make my way over to your side, kissing you lightly on the forehead.

I never told you about my cancer, and I'm sorry for that. I'm sorry for causing you the pain of me leaving you. I never meant for it to be this way. All I wanted was to live a normal life, and you showed me that there's happiness even in the smallest of places.

When you miss me, look at the pictures of us, pinned to a board on your bedrooom wall. Remember the memories we've had together. Remember the way you always made me smile, the dozens of laughs you filled me with. You showed me how to enjoy life, Briar. And I could never ask for anything more.

You filled my gloomy days with so much laughter I could barely contain myself. Remember me like that, Briar. Remember me happy.

I never realized it before, but I've fallen in love with you; your glowing smile, eyes the color of the raging ocean. I'd never known what love felt like, but I found it with you.

I love you so much, Briar. Never forget that. And remember I'll always be with you.

Love forever and always,

Sam

~

Briar's POV

I woke up to Sam's heart monitor, constantly beeping.Looking at the monitor, I noticed his breaths were slowing.

I made my way over to his bedside, rubbing my thumb gently across his cheek. His eyes were closed as his chest rose every so often.

"If only you knew how much I love you, Sam," I whispered, a single tear falling from my eyes. I watched him smile as he dwindled away.

"Sam? Sam?" My eyes filled with panic as I shook him lightly. "Sam?" My voice rose as I looked at the monitor, seeing the thin red line.

"Help! Somebody help!" I cried. As soon as those words escaped my lips, his hospital room flooded with doctors and nurses. They surrounded him, pushing me away to see what had happened. But they didn't need to. I already knew.

A doctor with black curly hair came rushing over to me. "I'm sorry, but he's gone.."

He's gone... He's gone... He's gone...

Those words rung in my ears, filling my head. I ran over to your bedside, crying my eyes out and practically screaming your name, hoping you'd come back to me.

I lay my head on your unmoving chest, letting my tears soak into your shirt. I noticed a small white envelope on the table next to you, To my sweet love, Briar, was written on it in your handwriting. I stuck it in the back pocket of my jeans before heading out of the hospital, feeling numb and empty.

I reread the letter over and over, tears staining the white lined paper.

"I love you, Sammy," I said, looking up at the bright blue sky. Even though the world seemed empty without you, I know I had to be strong. For you.

On days where I feel I can't bear your absence, I look at the pictures you took, just like you'd asked. I never knew you would change my life in such a drastic way.
A short story I wrote on Wattpad; not that it's any good, but yeah.
“I’m not sure if night is ending or day is beginning.  What time is it?” She asked as she opened the door.

“Its about 2:30” I answered.

She was pacing about slightly bobbing her head as she spoke.

“We're sorry to disturb you beloved.  We're conducting a homeless census. May we ask you some questions?”

“I don’t want to be put away”  she said.  “I have to be outside.”

“We’re not here to hurt you.  We’re here to help.”

"Where do you come from?" Ally asked.

She didn't remember where she was from and was uncertain why it mattered.

She knew she wanted to leave Paterson but was unsure about where she wanted to go.

She kept her eye on the McDonald’s across Market Street.  

"As long as the light is on, I know its still nighttime and I'll have a place to go if the cops kick me out of here."

Here, was this evenings lodging in an ATM vestibule.  

"I can also get something to eat when I'm hungry."

"What time is it?"

"Its about 2:30."    

She earnestly wants to know what time it is.  

"I don't want the people going to work in the morning seeing me sleeping here." she said, "It's embarrassing."

Her papers were scattered on the floor.

She had one shoe on and one shoe off.  A white sock gloved an indeterminate number of other sock layers warming her shoe-less left foot, sufficient protection from the balmy mist of this late January evening.   The orphaned shoe lay on its side in the corner of the Wells Fargo foyer.

White, black and yellow plastic grocery bags filled with the content of her worldly possessions lay atop the shelf housing bank deposit slips neatly stacked in cubbyholes.

A woolen hat circled her head.  Her tiny face shone through the gray skull cap tightly tied under her soft chin.

She looked to be in her 50’s.  She spoke in a pale uneven tempo with a quiet anxious voice.  Her eyes were clear.  Her pursed mouth bracketed by a trinity of long chocolate crescent winkles. The sounds floating from her mouth were gently angelic and the kindness of a tender smile was filled with demure submissiveness.

She swaddled herself in multiple layers of coats and trousers bulking up a waif like frame.  Her outermost cloak, a gray trench coat was secured with a tightly wrapped knotted cloth belt.  The coat was thoroughly soiled by a life of sleeping rough in the urban outback.  The fabric boasted a consistency worthy of an Abercrombie and Fitch oil finished coat.  The bulky layers rounded the frame of her shoulders.  She resembled a small granite headstone.

"Whats your name?" I asked.  She was reluctant to tell us.  “I don’t like my name”.

We gently coaxed her.

“Carmen” she whispered.

“That's a beautiful name.  Its the name of the most beautiful operas ever written.”

“I know.  I’m gonna change my name someday.” she answered.  “I never liked it.”

Ally finished taking the survey, leaving more questions unresolved than answered.  

We gave Carmen a blanket, gloves, a hat.  Some hot cocoa, two sandwiches and a chocolate bar. We implored her to visit our pantry when it opened in the morning for cloths, referrals and food.  She was very grateful; but I don’t think she’ll ever make her way there.

I gave her my phone number; but I don’t think she’ll call.

“You are not forgotten beloved.  You are deeply loved.  Please remember that.” I said cupping her calloused hands within my palms.

“I know” the dainty caged bird cooed with a submissive smile.  

“What time is it?”

As we left Carmen, I wondered how to count a person wishing to remain invisible.

Music Selection: Bizet’s Carmen, Habanera

Maya Angelou: I Know Why a Caged Bird Sings

Paterson
1/30/13
jbm
Part 8 of extended poem Silk City PIT.  PIT is an acronym for Point In Time.  PIT is an annual census American cities conduct to count the homeless population.  Carmen was a person we found and counted during the census.  Silk City is a nick name of Paterson NJ.
Francisco DH Aug 2013
The rain pelts the window,
The Boyfriend who tries to get my attention,
Throwing its rocks at the window,
But I ignore and continue on with my work.

Mrs. Livingston wants a paper written
A 5 page paper
And Things like annoying rain mustn’t distract me.

Though the rain is easy to ignore
There is one thing that I can’t ignore.
Him.
He is there in the back of my mind
Occupying the space where numbers from math class should be,
Where my History homework on Napoleon should be,
Where He shouldn’t be.

Golden eyes flash before me once the room goes white,
A scent seduces my nose though it’s in my mind
Just a memory brought back to life
A ghost intruding when it need not.

Why? Why can’t he leave me alone?
Yet I know it’s not him that’s in the wrong
It’s me
And My gay ways.

Latching onto him
Clasping his words in its hands
Soaking up every syllable
Every word
Everything about him
Like a sponge soaking up the bubbles , suds, water, and germs.

The paper! I must get back to the paper!
He can’t be in my mind when I have much writing to do.
But
I like him.
More than like him.

I remember when at first I dug my heels into the ground
Refusing to fall
Then as time went on
The heels got eroded
The ground beneath me got eroded
My determination was eroded.
And
I
Fell.

An object forced to the ground not because of gravity
But because he had something about him
Something that made my body sing,
With bulking, twisting, and jittering.

Was it his smile?
That one little curve.
That one little curve with such shine
And such sweetness
It could melt ice
And have more sugar than a pack of Hershey Kisses.

Maybe his hair?
The constant loops
Of Wheat
Of sand
Of soft wool.
Taking me on a ride that never seem to end.

Or perhaps his Words and Speech?
The constant dragging out words
The sweet tune of the Hillbilly in his vocals.
Lost in his words that never made sense
Until I thought more of it.

Or maybe his demeanor?
The laid back student who dreams of going cross country in a van.
The one who seems to have everything figured when he can’t figure if he is up or down.
The one who attracts the negative and it turns to problems
The one who surprises me with his out of the blueness.
And takes me on such a high that it shatters by heart when he drops me.

I have to stop.
He is taken from me
That is a thought I mustn’t forget.
Why spend this time
Thinking
Wanting
Loving
Liking
Wishing
Hoping
When he has been taken from me.
I must finish the paper.
I don’t have much time.
Was working on my paper but then my mind drifted
Trevor Gates Nov 2014
“Lucratively tedious” is what I called him.
That odd-ball collector of street-wise poets
Bulking up the lost devil anthologies while
Drowning black coffee with wordsmith stoics
Ready to deal a winning hand
at a moment’s notice.

The carnal majesty of fever blizzard erotica,
Stories penned with the sweat on oily skins.
The curtains of neon phantasmagoria
showcase psychosexual fiends and harlequins
Sing away raw vocal cord fire while I’m
dancing with Queens of glamorous sins.

He had that red tail swinging in the rain
She watched, the emissary of jaded seduction
With pale skin and leather lips abundant
Stroking hair full of snakes and destruction
With a wardrobe fit for 1980s metal scenes
As he in turn supplemented instruction.

It’s those bedlam vices creeping through the creases
Playing in our heads like a thousand movie reels
Desired fantasies mutated into corrupted realities
Shameful like the artificial chemicals we call meals
Some things need to be ruined to be appreciated
Just Like ol’ Lucy in her stiletto heels.
gd Dec 2013
In my mind, I'm putting all the things that remind me of you in a box to leave in the back shelf of my unconscious until these things have changed from objects of dispair, to ones I can look back on and smile about rather than frown - maybe not now, but somewhere, sometime, somehow hopefully soon:

a box of Cheerios because they were your favourite,

Colgate toothpaste because that's what you tasted like,

the notes you left in my locker when you used to pass by every morning,

a cantaloupe because "soft fruits help you kiss better,"

almonds, and nuts in general, because you always talked about bulking diets and were a little nuts to be honest,

a pair of Sperry's because you wore them with everything,

a movie ticket because that was our first "date," and you worked at the local theatre,

a hockey stick because you loved the sport with all your heart,

a CD with a single track on it: Let Her Go by Passenger because you told me that was your favourite song and I hope it's the one you listen to when thinking about me,

and last but certainly not least,
a vile of the scent you wore every single day that I could never manage to decipher even up to now.

- g.d.
Letting go of your velvet touch seems to be harder than I thought, but to remain holding onto nothing would be a knife to my seemingly already-weakened heart. Goodbye, Love.
Anna Lo Aug 2014
Never will you know
out of body, out of mind
atomizing in thin air
floating upon crystal castles
dangling on wispy clouds
I suppose I am to blame
I've forgotten in the mold
folded a thousand times
struggling under pressure
bulking exponentially
until I desist at last
filtering out memories
I couldn't hold onto regrettably
kisses so deep
so lonesome
the touch of lips still lingers
flirting with my memory
an ancient calling
my rhapsody,
to harmonize, baptize
recognize the demon inside.

and lost in it's cage the fallen angel sighs
of relief perhaps
or of unshakeable boredom
knowing that he'll
never be never be never be
unbroken
Zoe Sue Jan 2016
18 feels like..
Being caught between the door and the wall
In a game of hide and seek
A gasp hanging over your head
A breath shrinking your chest

18 is the eager freshman
Stumbling down the hall
Schedule in hand

18 sounds like it should be some bigger picture
Than 9x2

18 feels like an adulthood indoctrination
For the forest fairy believers

18 is the first trip to a strip tease
Full of chanting and discarded dollar daughter smiles

....

18, you could've done worse to me
...


18 makes me walk as though I've atlas' own shoulders
Like a puffer fish,
Bulking up
As though I am anything but prey

18 makes me wonder when the world shrunk so
The house has never felt this small
And I,
Grow ever more aware of just how much space I occupy

18 needs not hold my hand as I walk across the street

I know how 18 goes down like age old whiskey
The burn must come before the warmth
simone jewell Jan 2016
She came with a bed time story of a gal who had not a clue
about where to go or what ever to do
she spent her days sulking
upon worries and worries that have been bulking
her dreams uncertain and her mind a clutter
the desires of her heart cannot help but flutter

she's running out of time
someone please tell her being puzzled is no crime
her identity is entirely made from imagination and affection
like everyone else, insecure with her own imperfection
not everybody's cup of tea
everybody's best friend she tries to be
but often lonely
and sick of monotony

She asked who the girl was
I answered, "the girl is me."
Thomas Alan Apr 2016
It does not matter
What is under your vest
But what's inside your heart
Not what's bulking your chest

You see that's the problem
With the laws of attraction
Laws can broken
By a deeper connection
Philipp K J Aug 2019
The ocean waves pave the way
For their snow-white kids to play
Up and down they wash the sands
Set the soft kids on the  banks

Spartan waves spring back sprightly
Hardened furls fling up brightly
Command its kids in rough voice
Stay back at shore to rejoice

The foam kids line up sulking
Parents persist on bulking
The uniform foams get toiled
The froth kids tend to be spoiled
nivek Feb 2019
Starlings bathe in the blocked gutter
just above the window where I perch,
rain water splashes down the pane,
I would unblock it but I would miss out
so I will leave it a bath for the birds.
I remembered to buy bird food
yesterday when I did my shop
and the garden is filled with Sparrows
bulking up on nuts, and their chattering's
and chirrups are a welcome sound.
"it's such an unfair advantage working in security, joke of a job, or rather: there are too many people in this industry: mostly women, who 'think' they can appease a restless drunk, man, who they have no coordinates for in terms of the stressors of nihilism: if religion was still alive: but god is alive while religion is dead... if these women knew that simply popping out a golden doughnut of a bambino: we have it harsh not that it matters but we don't have the luxury of fashion and make-up... say that to someone obsessed with latex, the Marvel comic universe... Rod Stewart's train-set... and then this ****** antics... yachts galore... but a woman? pops out a baby and hey presto! cul de sac of existentialism sort of become a tempus per se: agreed... there's no locus ad hoc: no space for this... so the child is a discomfort a 'discomfort'... but i'm not such a bad drunkard... i don't get jealous, i just tease my wuvva bovva when she tells me that she has courtesans in her vicinity of that juicy *** of a peach... but take religion away from man and replace that with the Coliseum: replace the Church with the Coliseum and then spike his ingestion of: moderation of wine: excess that with beer... don't give him a purpose: disorientate him with sport: doubly so! make him twice the unappreciative leech on what sport is: blind-side him with football fanaticism: so that he can't appreciate athletics and mathematics: the two mothers looking for a third: perfect thirst for melancholy and knowledge: namely philosophy: perhaps it's only a struggle in this tongue, this English: zunge... this lack of thirst for language bagging some Stanley 'satan' Shakespearean itch: that night when lying in bed and i felt a creepy-crawli rummaging into my skin to get at my nymph-nodes... now i feel my skin itching... and only yesterday... the chances of cycling and catching a ******* insect in my eye... eye not yet watery but still blistered... maybe this freak-ah-zoyd reclining should stop just watching people video games: at least she might not be prone to doing **** like: selling bathtub water for the desperate or maybe i'm also one of them: i'm pretty sure that if i spread enough words into the stream of connectivity i'd get away with prying open the gimmick: bagged me a Puerto Rican ****... a Puerto Rican **** and i don't feel inclined to explore sexuality most extreme in ****... i like the vanilla tasting her swallow... but then again i have my three-switch flick of the index prompt regarding one finger in her mouth and another in her ****: but boys being boys it wasn't enough that i was envied for courting a Russian girl: now i challenged the spectrum and went the other way all the way to H'america..."

it's sports commentary:
i listen in on all those former footballers turned
sport pundits and
jeez: ****** as General:
not the competent Erwin Rommel...
there's the genius and there's the artistic
turned dictator: flop...
sports commentary concerning football
is... ******* boring:
maybe that's why the fans are so vocal...
but if you just listen to the commentary
surrounding the Tour de France:
well: it's linear: the race:
unlike F1... very much unlike Formula Uno:
one...
ah! that's what i forgot!
to scribble in some katakana!
since N is so special a vowel in Yap:

オンエ   (not one: oh-née:
        i.e. not one or won)
the plural of feminine: those women...
different in the masculine
realm replacing one letter:

      オンイ... oh-knee...
no... wait... that's exactly the same: even with
the surd inclusion to morph meaning
of the same sound...
oh-n'eh: yes yes... oh-
  no... wait... that's right!
what was i thinking?!

        probably something about becoming blind
in one eye: which one? the ! or the ? eye?
and ears likewise: deaf like
that's a monstrous punctuation adventure
a colon in one ear
a semi-colon out the other...

in the plural then: AXIS... summon the *******
i've worked with enough drunkards
that i understand an unfair advantage
when i see one:
i summoned up bulking and bulging
i put on an extra kilogram or so
so i look more obnoxiously formidable like
i'm waiting for the action doing
response but all i see it people
wasting my time
i want to be traumatized like most people
become when doing this job
but all i get it politeness and maybe
i'm just a big smooch:
the way she described other males
trying to chirp her up all lavender and honey
i didn't get disorientated
i just told her: it's coming up to 4am
and i'm still thinking about tomorrow's
weather and the heatwave receding
and your daughter is eating dry pasta
and that's almost like me clinging
to exercising my bite and gnash
on my own teeth and other instruments
of torture until bone bites bone
and a new geology is born from the chips
and my grinning chipped teeth:

onesies i think "they" call them...
don't know: bad grammar is a disgrace when
so made into fetish for bad politics
like chess are people or people
are chess and this is a nightmare circus
but fair enough:
if that eases the strain on god's antics
in the omni-verse of -potency etc
then i too think Yo needs...

it looks so terrible for anyone who's either
schizophrenic or bilingual,
this whole notion of: "gender neutral pronouns":
perhaps it's an English-thing:
with its already in situ:
gender neutral nouns...
which makes no sense to summon
the idea, the whisper: but wow! so vocal:
"gender neutral pronouns":
the ******* nouns are gender neutral!
learn! another! *******! zunge!
in other languages there's no confusion:
nouns are gender exclusive!
there's some inkling into this reality with
calling the Moon a boy and the Sun a girl:
or in the ancient script calling
Latin Moon girl and Latin Sun boy...
but come on: Britain: the Afghanistan of
the ancient world: before the Saxons conquered
this respite for conquest:
these Irish, Welsh and Scots...
don't bother me when i'm still residing in Essex...
before the Germanic influence:
the devolved people pushed into a now
impeding homogeneity of Pseudo-Babylon...
with all the rest of the people of the world
making their claim to
bad weather and even worse diet!
well **** me! might as well sell them ****
and make them feel like twice the overlords
and conquerors with their breeding patterns
and state-dependence:
me? i'm ******* off to Hawaii... leave you to it...
i'm beyond one ounce of giving a toss:
i found myself a girl i can escape pornographic
daydreaming:
on a hunch: well yeah:
the day i brought her present to the brothel:
a ****-ring...
the 20 year didn't know what i was doing
but neither did she know what was what is
a ******* before the advent of the monotheistic
mutilation by the Arab-Hebrews...
oh yeah, yeah: i'd get circumcised (if i could,
but i can't but if i could: but i can't
since i have a caduceaus of veins around my skin
on my **** so: bleeding gums murphy)...
circumcision should only be permitted
as a prenup agreement...
only then: not right off the bat hey ** let's go!
if i get married then yeah:
guillotine my *******...
but beyond that you ******* barbaric sods: ha ha...

it's still bad grammar...
gender, neutral, pronouns...
as in: "neutrality" of enveloping the singular with
the plural so that he is disguised as they
and she a them: wow! applause! stupendous
******* applause!
i'm having to listen to the DYSLEXIC goblins!
the fury and the agony of: supposing
the priestly-caste became limp-**** energy
and people became over-ambitious in their
first: thirst: ambition for scribble scribble scribble:
but then the scribble scribble scribble
comes back and you begin to wonder:
all that... for this?!

it's not even bothersome what sport you watch:
but football these days has the most
terrible of commentaries...
you switch off listening to it
and appreciate the game:
with the exception of, say: John Motson...
Jonathan Pearce... yeah...
but beside that: ex-footballers...
one exception...
two...
            Ian Wright is not a commentator:
he's a pundit...
as is Roy Keane....
             Alan Shearer... Ally McCoist...
legend...
                  Martin Keown: measured, reserved...
sober(?)...
             Tour de France commentary is
different: you're not supposed to be watching
the race, well: you are: you're not...
regardless:
i don't see a bunch of women raising arms
at length to salute and say:
we also want to be the brides and girdles
of the Tour! give us some!

equal pay: but i really want women to play
5 sets in tennis!
i want to get my money's worth!
if women are to be paid equal as men
in a sport:
they should at least play to a 3 set winner in
the grand slams... surely... no?
why are they getting paid to play a maximum
of 3 sets while men have to grind out
a 5 setter?
doesn't seem fair:
but we're only talking about a pedantic minority
of hard-core feminist-nazis to begin with
so i'm not really bothered about outcomes
of my spontaneous verbiage...

                  but if you don't attract a massive
crowd to watch your matches...
with the exception of the national team
then i really don't understand
how all these women think they can be
****-boys and not look ugly
while we know all the ****-boys
are Peter Pans and that's really not something
you aspire to
since you know they're only ******* the gullible
ones and that's an intellectual sub-par
of what's talked about outside the bedroom:

i didn't ask whether you can cook and clean...
then there you go with:
but i'll earn as much as you and get a maid...
seriously?!
so all for me but none for you
so there's no grand feminist solidarity
you'd rather have another woman do your chores
while you compete for my... responsibilities
and strains:
i didn't say: can you cook and clean:
i do that myself... i was just asking:
would you mind cooking and cleaning: with me:
but there you go all defensive:
but i'm not doing either:
regardless:
regardless of what?
butchering a poor animal twice by
overcooking the beef till it's dry and ugh and
i need blood and ju and goo:

no wonder then that i had to resort
to looking for a woman outside of England:
if not in Russia then in America...
well: Polynesia... South America:
not America-as-Culture as such...
somewhere "spicy": somewhere fidgety...
fiddly... jeez this itch...
i really do think i have a parasite crawling
under my skin: sometimes it pops like an itch
in my ear sometimes
on my nose...

it's still a case of bad grammar:
gender, *******, neutral, ******* pronouns...
it's bad... so so bad...
someone ought to cut off the dyslexic delusion
of prowess: give them some sweets:
a sugar rush and a motorcycle to speed
on and crash into a jargon busting dumpster
of a truck: re-orientate them with
clever tricks like:
only two experiences can compensate getting
a ******* as good as...
     getting a haircut in all that ******* Ottoman
experience and...
seeing a dentist: but that's not ethnicity related
like going to a Turkish barber:
any dentist will do:
shoving his latex GIMP
           hands into your mouth while you're gagging
and saying: i might just about to cry
from all that inverted ***: my-tho-logy?
    structure: that's mý-tho-logy:
when writing the schematic: it's truly there:
it's not my: aye: eye...
     it's a mýthology: hence no ý in -logy:
since that's: logically: -ee... e e... e... e... e... e...

i knew you were trouble: Taylor does DUB STEP...
Taylor does DUB STEP... drops the BASS...
softcore dub step:
i remember there was that musical movement
once circa 2007...
then died the quickest death imaginable...

that sporting events have replaced:
well what's the problem with religion is the carousel
of repeating familiarity
and perhaps people just want drama
drama that can be contained and if religion was no
escapism:
but it was escapism for people, formerly:
then religion can't satiate the problems of modern man
god is alive and well
in the mental asylum
while religion is dead or at least morphing:
personally i find i couldn't find any satisfaction
with religion
even as much as the Muslims want to make
their intricate prayer antics enticing with remnants
of mysticism
i couldn't possible lubricate my mouth
on the mantras that leave the Urdu speaking
confusion a half-baked Arabic...
  
                          since... maybe there's a living through
language: LINGUA PER SE
re-orientating itself:
something out of my power...
              maybe language is: primarily an etymology
instead of history
perhaps there's a secret layer of language
that balances out all the newly discovered
graffiti...
                            and i'm just here for the thrill
of: peacock: how can i best attire myself
in the right sort of feathers of words...
                                     which might make her O and A
and Ooh: in the whirlwind of the YHWH
with the two hatches as vowel catchers in sighs
and instigators of laughs: balancing act of Ah in Ha... ha.

p.s. so in the end, my "unfaithfulness":
non-committal...
i thought: can i be as or at least so: psychopathic
and escape the sanctity of ****** exclusiveness?
turns out no...
the ****-ring confused the young *******
as did the *******...
in the end i ended up paying her £120 for an hour
whereby i massaged her
and she cuddled to me like a daughter
and that's when i decided that:
all the lessons of the brothel have been learned...
there's no need for me to go back...
i think it was always a language barrier for me...
i think that language is: but especially is:
if you find your type:
voluptuous... volume: voluptuous...
              if you can find your type and become:
TYPO... strange parallels:
an honest monetary exchange: once, only once
since March... and... absolutely... nothing...
to engage a psychology with:
too many ******* swans in my head
and matrimony...

                          a ******-pathology:
or rather a pathology of *** post the ****** revolution
in that:
it takes great strain and mental gymnastics
to go ahead with frivolous and anti-stereotypical
"awakening" casualness of ***
in the realm of the psychopath:
maybe that's why i did overcome that aspect
of ***
and did manage multiple ****** partners
and did manage to persuade some to perform
unprotected *** and that's a big thing
since in the brothel the onion and peel of
skin of extra financing the experience
but then a return to a comfort of the lived
rather than dying through experience
and how naturally there'a a lock on who you
experience either KINK or VANILLA with
and even in the realm of VANILLA
the KINK comes out: out of its own unconscious
rota of: can't hide forever...
and that's better than all the false sense of
the rewarding self: instead it's a self-punishment
with that promise of causal *** that's:
so... ******* monstrous i don't know why
**** ideology died
while this 1960s ****** revolution still lingers
like a bad taste absinthe and Marxism:
but **** ideology is dead
while there's the real human question
of sincerity when it comes to such topics
as Euthanasia and being unable to care / afford
demented relatives...
this liberal-anti-liberal monstrosity is just:
icky...
                                         and this is coming from
a place of "love": like:
why were only the Slavic people inclined to
test out Marxism to the fullest extent
(while door-mouse Chinese faked it until they
made it...)
        but at least there were a people who tested
the theory thoroughly and there's knowledge
of: Marxism would work well in current Syria:
like it did in Poland:
as a way of: Marxism in place under special
circumstances of: invaded by and distraught by:
at least 2 foreign powers...
and a special time period like half a century...
great undercurrent of cultural growth:
no foreign investment: F.D.R's isolationism like
that of Japan: a fail-safe mechanism...
nothing capitalistic: permanent...

                  but **** me that was the last time
i paid for an hour whereby i ended up
massaging a *******: gremlin ergonomics of
pseudo-economic achievements of earning: spending.
Ana Habib Nov 2020
Can you still hear it
Every time you get up at 6 am to work a thankless permanent job for the rest of your life while he goes to the office and the kid is at school?

Can you still hear it
When you slave away at a 9-6 job at some fast food joint 6 days a week
Hoping that you'll get a raise soon because life at home is unbearable

Can you still hear it
As you work day and night to complete that bachelors degree in engineering so that you don’t have to stick around to see your father drink himself to death and your mom stressing herself out about how she is going to marry you off to someone good hearted stranger

Can you still hear it
As you come home to a clueless rich husband who prides himself on his work ethic and large circle of friends but still hasn’t figured out how to get close to you or make you smile after 7 years of marriage!

Can you still hear it
As you work to complete college work through night school working 2 different jobs and wonder if there is something better in store for you then staying in a relationship that doesn’t make you happy and was built on a promise to a dying parent or relative

Can you still hear it
As you spend another day in the hospital hoping it will be the last day of eating bland food, swallowing pill after pill, loosing more blood and living on the hope of finding a donor

Can you still hear it
As you waste another evening dressing up and putting on high heels for another boy to come see you, eat your food, whisper in his mother's ear and wait for the family to reject you because your too thin, too dark and too loud

Can you hear it
As you waste time day after day in the gym and find no joy in bulking up but would much rather be spending time handling paint, clay and ink

Can you hear it
As you wipe your tears and wonder what to feed your two babies because the cheque bounced and you wont get paid for another three days

The little voice that wants you to live for yourself and not others

The little voice that wants you to follow your heart and not live based on people’s opinions

The little voice that demands that you not settle for average and for something that you truly want instead

The little voice that screams that you deserve better

The little voice that yells that you shouldn’t stifle your dreams for others comfort, or false appearances

Find that voice before it turns into a whisper

— The End —